


Silence in the Big City

by SirWaddlesEsquire



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: F/M, pinecest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-09
Updated: 2020-01-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:34:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22179403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SirWaddlesEsquire/pseuds/SirWaddlesEsquire
Summary: A new city, a new rooftop. (NSFW - Pinecest)
Relationships: Dipper Pines/Mabel Pines
Comments: 1
Kudos: 35





	Silence in the Big City

It speaks volumes, that it’s her silence that tells him when he has impressed her.

Mabel is Mabel. Even in the big city. She is irrepressible and dynamic, going about her day with a skip in her step and a smile on her face. In all things, it’s her fierce sense of life that shines through. Much of the day is spent in an endless commentary, the narrative leaping from the crazy hair of someone they saw on the bus, to how there can be so many different types of beans in the store, to that poster for an upcoming show which has puppets. Dipper listens to all of it, letting her speak, basking in the constant words, expressions, and noises of his twin.

But as she removes the blindfold, and as she sees how he has transformed the little rooftop of their apartment building, and as she spins wide-eyed and amazed, she says nothing. And he knows that he has done well.

It had taken a fair amount of work to create this little surprise. Christmas lights can be difficult to find in the summer, after all. It also took some time to convince the super, Mr. Nowacki, to lend him the key to the roof and a ladder. Mostly because the man only spoke Polish. But he apparently knew the phrase ‘it’s for love’, because once Dipper had used it, the super’s assistance had been abundant. After hanging the lights, pushing the various potted plants out of the middle, and using an excessive amount of construction paper, he thought the place looked passably romantic. He had then gone around to all the other tenants, letting them in on the secret in order to ensure the young couple would not be disturbed. Mrs. Hernandez had thought it was wonderful, Mr. and Mrs. Nguyen had stared at each other fondly, and Chuck had given a few pelvic thrusts with a smug smile. In the end, all had promised they would avoid the roof that night, and, for the sake of the surprise, all had pledged their silence.

There is a lot of silence in the big city.

It’s the silence of a new place, foreign and hostile from that very first step off the bus, each of them clinging to the other as they crane their necks upwards in awe. The decision had been easy to make and moving away from home had been necessary. It was a fresh start, a do-over, a beginnings. It was a place to be recognized and anonymous, to be themselves and to be anyone else, to be known and unknown. It was a place for possibilities. And in all possibilities, the city is cold, it is severe, and it is uncaring, looking down in silence.

She looks at him, questioning, and he can’t help but be enchanted by her. The many tiny lights play across her enraptured face, casting her in a glow of red and greens and blues, and he is reminded that she is beautiful. He flips the switch on their pawn-shop-purchased radio, and the jubilant beats of Latin music flare to life, filling the space around them. She smiles; the nearby all-Spanish station is the only channel their little radio receives. He takes her hand, and pulls her to him, beginning to move along to the salsa beat. There’s a raised eyebrow, incredulous, seemingly to remind him that she knows he can’t dance salsa. But she trusts him, and she follows him, and she falls into the steps, and soon they are moving across the rooftop, reveling in the crackling music battling alone against the silence.

It’s the silence of a phone that does not ring, no matter how long it’s stared at. Of their parents’ refusal to call. Of parents unable or unwilling to understand the sudden 3,000 mile distance in between, the newly created physical abyss; all the while never having seen the emotional chasm that had already been formed. Formed of secret feelings and clandestine meetings, of furtive looks and hidden significance, of the inability to speak. Of quiet. And now, lashing out in petulant obstinacy, their parents returned the sentiment in kind: in silence.

The song changes and now the sound is all guitars and bandoneon, haunting and carnal. Her gaze is challenging and he meets it with one of his own. Sliding a hand to her waist, he bumps her own to his shoulder. And with a coy wink, he whisks her into a tango. They glide in delicate but exacting ellipses, and he is reminded that she is sensual. They are pressed up close to one another, the two of them flush and fitted. Her hips revolve as he spins her, a slender arm raised above her head, all of her hypnotic, and he is unable to keep the hunger from his eyes. She has hunger in her own, cheeks rosy and her bottom lip captured in her teeth. So he yanks her against him, pressing her close as they take the next turn. Their passion crescendos despite the silence.

It’s the silence of desperate love making. The kind that is initiated with a look or a touch, the usual dance of question and answer exchanged instead in a mere flash, written on skin and in a lover’s eye. The kind that begins with tender kisses and gentle hands, a caress whose affection is known by all. The kind that ends in heaving bodies and writhing limbs, an agony whose beauty is tacit only to the participants. The kind that is fueled by unrelenting need and crippling hesitance, by abject pleading and stubborn refusal, by a selfish give and a selfless take. The kind that always results in silence.

There is another shift in the music, and now it is slow and indolent, whimsical in nature and wistful in rhythm. They adjust as one, his arms going around her waist and hers around his neck. She is small in his embrace, but she holds him tight, and he is reminded that she is compassionate. With a soft bonk, their foreheads meet, and they stay there, swaying gently together. They each mirror the other, their moves in-sync and composed. She strokes his neck in little circles, the expression evident even in the minute detail. The world presses down upon them, but they remain, defiant in the silence. 

It’s the silence that wakes him up in the middle of the night, acutely aware that she is weeping. Choked back sobs and sniffles disappearing into her pillow, tears that weren’t meant to be shared. But they are, and so he goes to her, rubbing her back, resting his head against her, and offering whispered platitudes. Because what more can he do? Because his chest hurts to see her like this. Because last night it had been him, and she had done the comforting then. Because neither of them could bear it if they were left alone, left bare, left in silence.

The big city shuts down for night. The windows around them go dark, taxis begin to display their ‘not in service’ signs, and bartenders usher the remaining barflies out on to the streets. The small radio fades to white noise as the last DJ ends their shift, and the machine is turned off. The little rooftop is conspicuous, lit by out-of-season Christmas lights. On a cheap plastic patio chair, Mabel sits in his lap. She’s curled up against him, his arms firm and possessive around her, her hand soft on his chest and her breath cool against his neck. They remain together into the night as neither says a word, and he knows that he has done well.

It’s her silence that tells him he has impressed her. It speaks volumes.


End file.
